A Ghost at the Door

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘You own much of the land around these parts, so of course you do. I’ll bet you a half-pint to another fifty-pound note’ – he produced yet another and placed it on the pile – ‘that you see everything that burrows or bleats or barks. This is your world, Mr Farleigh. So I’m not surprised you’re so protective of it. I don’t want to disturb it.’

  ‘How do I know that? You could be anyone. A snooper, a . . .’

  ‘The police? Or Revenue and Customs come to dig away in your backyard? Someone from the council come to see if you’ve got the right planning approval for every little shed or stable, a taxman come to see if your accounts have got more holes in them than your stock fence?’

  The farmer’s stare was bitter. Harry looked around the bar and saw a copy of the Daily Express abandoned on a nearby table. He retrieved it and opened it at page five. His own photo stared back at him above a lurid report. He pushed the newspaper into Far leigh’s hand.

  ‘You this bugger?’ the farmer said as he finished reading.

  ‘Arrested. Not charged. And, before you ask, I didn’t do it. But either way I’m not likely to be running off telling tales out of school, am I? All I want is to find out where Mr Francis is.’

  The son was back with more whisky. And more change. The pile of money was growing. Harry took yet another note from his wallet, making sure Farleigh could see that it was his last, and placed that along with the rest. ‘For the next round, too.’

  Still there was silence.

  ‘Look, Findlay Francis comes along, asks you for a very quiet place where he can hole up for a couple of months every year, do his work, visit his daughter in London, no questions asked and, most importantly for him,no questions answered. I’m guessing you did a deal with him, in cash, like you’ve always done in these parts, and I’m pretty sure he would have been generous. Paid for your silence. I understand your reluctance – it’s the decent thing to do – but let me assure you there’s nothing Mr Francis would like more than to speak with me right now.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because I think something’s happened to him.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Why do you think he was hiding? Somebody didn’t like him very much.’

  The son began to shift uncomfortably on his bench. ‘We don’t want no trouble,’ he bleated.

  ‘Trouble doesn’t wait for an invitation.’

  ‘But he said we wouldn’t—’

  ‘Shut your face, you little prick!’ the father spat.

  The son’s face churned in pain as if he’d been physically slapped and retreated inside his skin.

  The father leaned across the table towards Harry so that his words would be incapable of misinterpretation. Flecks of contempt swam in his eye. ‘You’re trouble, Mr Harry Jones, and I don’t remember no one inviting you, either. So why don’t you crawl off back under whatever rock you calls home and leave us folk in peace.’

  Harry had wasted his time. He sighed and reached out to scoop up the money on the table but Old Man Farleigh was ahead of him, his large farmer’s hand with its walnut knuckles and broken, dirty nails smacking down possessively on the pile of change. ‘Let’s call it my consultancy fee, shall we?’

  ‘Let’s not. You haven’t given me anything.’

  ‘But I don’t suppose a chap in your position’s in much mind to go calling the police. I did warn you not to go sticking your nose into other folk’s business.’ He smiled, coldly, then turned to his son. ‘You go get the pickup while I take a slash. I think our evening here’s done.’ He disappeared into the rear of the pub while his son, not wanting to be left alone with Harry, scuttled out the other way.

  Harry gave it thirty seconds, then followed the father. In many parts of the world they call such facilities rest rooms or comfort stations; this was neither. It was a bare, bleak room with scratched paintwork and an old porcelain urinal that dominated one entire wall. A single stall with a crooked door was at one end next to a basin that appeared to have been recycled from a tip. The place stank of stale urine, and the farmer stood at the urinal adding to the stench while scratching a new graffito with his thumbnail on the wall alongside a host of others. He stared in total indifference at Harry.

  ‘I think we have unfinished business,’ Harry said quietly.

  ‘I have.’ The farmer went back to it.

  ‘Don’t let’s fall out, there’s no need.’

  ‘What’s that you say?’ Farleigh said, turning to Harry. He was still pissing. It streamed close to Harry’s shoes.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t done that.’

  ‘Who d’you think you are, the one-armed bandit?’ the farmer sneered. His words were slow, with a slight slur; the last whisky had done for him.

  When he was finished he shook himself and zipped up his trousers. ‘You reckon you’re man enough for me, then?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Harry said, taking a small step forward.

  That was when the farmer took a swing at him, putting all his bulk behind the blow, but it was too well telegraphed. Harry swayed back just far enough for the clenched fist to miss. The farmer swore and swung again with his other hand, a long looping hook that, when it missed, spun him round. Harry was now behind him. He shoved Farleigh face first against the wall, hooked his cast around his neck and grabbed the middle finger of his left hand, wrenching it up over his shoulder and bending it back fiercely. The farmer screamed in shock and pain.

  At that moment the door swung open and Peter stood, staring, hesitating.

  ‘Get him, you useless bastard!’ the father cried.

  Yet still the son hesitated, looking at his father, then back over his shoulder to see if there were someone else he might summon to help. And Harry twisted the father’s finger once more. It wouldn’t take much more to break it. In agony the father sank to his knees.

  ‘You sure we can’t do a deal here?’ Harry said. ‘You keep kneeling in your own piss much longer and those trousers of yours will be ruined. Not to mention your finger.’ He gave it another savage jerk.

  ‘There – there was a man who looked a lot like the one you’re after,’ Old Man Farleigh gasped, his teeth gritted against the pain. ‘Wanted a place to think, so he said.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Said he’d do the place up a bit. It needed work.’

  ‘What place?’

  But Farleigh struggled, tried to release himself. Harry’s voice went cold as he leaned his weight on the finger and brought it to breaking point. ‘My trouble is, Mr Farleigh, I get very impatient. It’s a fault, I know.’

  It was Farleigh’s resistance rather than his finger that was broken. He gave a huge sob of despair and his body sagged in submission. Harry let him go. He fell sobbing to the floor, almost into the filthy water.

  ‘The old keeper’s cottage,’ Peter whispered, aghast at the sight of his father. ‘We don’t have no keepers no more; no one ever goes up there, not in years.’

  ‘So when did you last see him?’

  ‘Last September. When he usually arrived. Some times he’d borrow our old Land Rover. Carry his supplies, fresh gas canisters, that sort of thing. Then he’d pay for its annual service. That’s always in September, once the harvest were done.’

  ‘And where is this keeper’s cottage?’

  ‘’Bout half a mile down the Burton Bradstock road, up in the old wood. Just past what’s left of the oak that got done by lightning a couple of years back.’

  ‘Then I shall go and visit him.’

  ‘He won’t be there.’

  ‘I just hope you’re right.’

  The father straightened, clutching his hand in pain. ‘I think you bloody broke it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. It’ll only feel like that for a couple of days. Believe me, if I’d wanted to break it you’d have known all about it.’

  ‘Dad, shall I call the police?’

  ‘Why not, after all?’ Harry interrupted. ‘We can meet them at the back of your farm. The
way you like other people’s money I’m guessing – what? Holiday lets without planning permission? A little illicit asbestos dumping or a bloody great hole filled with old tyres? Something like that. I’m up for it if you are.’

  The father snarled and swore at him but kept his eyes lowered.

  ‘Keep the change. You’ll need it to clean yourself up,’ Harry said as he pushed past the son and disappeared out of the door.

  They said goodnight at the top of the leaning stairs. The girls’ room was to the right, Harry’s to the far left. Abby threw her arms around Harry. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed in his ear, kissing both cheeks.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being a very special sort of man. For taking care of that darling deer.’ A brave smile. ‘For whatever happens tomorrow.’

  He had told them only some of what had taken place with the Farleighs, that they’d given him a few good clues they could follow up in the morning. He didn’t want to raise their hopes, he had too many fears of what they might find.

  ‘And for taking care of us,’ Abby whispered, giving him a hug that squeezed the breath from him before heading for her bedroom.

  It was Jemma’s turn, reaching up to kiss him, on the lips, the old elm floor creaking beneath her feet as she stretched. No words. Just a strange look. Then she, too, was gone.

  Harry was woken from his bed of lumps by a noise. It was as dark as a coal seam in the room with only starlight for company, but he wasn’t alone; he heard the noise again. A creaking joist from outside. Slowly the door opened, an inch, then more, casting a pale light onto the bedroom floor. He saw Jemma’s unmistakable profile. She crept in, on tiptoe, closed the door behind her, shutting out the light once more and finding the edge of the bed by touch. She reached for his hand.

  ‘I saw a new side of you today, Harry,’ she said, her voice so low he daren’t breathe for fear of missing it. ‘I’m so used to chasing after you, trying to keep pace, feeling so bloody miserable when I fail. But this afternoon, in that lane, you stopped for a while. To deal with the deer.’

  ‘Someone had to.’

  ‘It’s easier to love you when I don’t have to run.’

  He nodded in the darkness. How often had he heard that before?

  ‘At times you seem to drag all the cares of the world behind you. It gets messy. That’s not easy for a girl to deal with.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But this afternoon, with that poor creature, I was so glad it was you. Not anyone else.’

  He wasn’t sure where this was headed, stayed silent.

  ‘Harry, I wanted you to give me space because there were some things I needed to find out. About myself.’

  ‘And did you, Jemma?’

  ‘I think so. But, Harry, I couldn’t find the answers to those questions on my own.’ The tremble in her voice told him all that the words did not.

  ‘I didn’t assume you’d stay at home every night knitting, Jem.’

  ‘I don’t knit.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You . . . didn’t mind?’

  ‘Of course I minded, particularly when I saw you dancing out of the cinema hand in hand with Steve.’

  ‘You followed me?’

  ‘No, I was just passing. Coincidence.’

  ‘But I didn’t think we believed in—’

  ‘You know, every time I use that word I feel like I’ve swallowed old fish guts. Yes, but that’s all it was, coincidence. Seeing you with your old flame. Do you remember you once told me you only ever went out with him for one thing?’

  It was her turn to stay silent.

  ‘Mad as bloody hell I was when I saw you. But then I got drunk, and while I got drunk I got to thinking. I’d asked you to share our bed with another man. My father. I guess I can understand you wanting to get your own back.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Whatever it was like, so long as it’s over I can deal with it.’

  ‘The gentle Jones.’

  ‘No, the very practical Jones. I want you, Jem, and there’s a price we all have to pay for what we want.’

  ‘What price do you want me to pay, Harry?’

  ‘Help me finish what I’m doing.’

  ‘Kicking open coffins?’

  ‘That sounds a bit graphic.’

  ‘It’s what it feels like.’

  ‘It’s too important for me not to do it and too important for us not to do it together. I think we’re getting close, near the end. Then we can get back to the real world of you and me.’

  ‘We don’t have to wait, Harry.’ She leaned forward, searching for his lips.

  ‘What will Abby think?’

  She smiled even as she was kissing him. ‘Oh, I know what Abby thinks. She told me she’d kill me if I came back before breakfast.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  They had found it the next morning, less than half a mile beyond the turning that led to the pub. A small lay-by on the side of the B-road that in its summer grab seemed little more than a slice of wayward grass verge. From the direction in which they came they could see nothing that gave any clue, but once they’d parked up and walked back they found the suggestion of a track leading away through the overgrowth. From the road where they stood the track seemed to come to a rapid dead end but, as they forced their way through the tentacles of ferns and summer grasses that reached out to grab at them, they saw that it turned and headed up the hillside in the direction of the thick woodland that dominated the brow. The day was young, fresh, the air still, the path ahead of them untouched and filled with daisies and hogweed and the sound of foraging bees. As they climbed they could see behind them the extending vastness of the sea, while up ahead they found nothing but trees. Then the earth dipped to form a fold, a crease in the hillside. That was when they saw it, nestling in the margin of the woodland. A small cottage hidden from the road by the lie of the land, backed into the trees yet open to the sea views, the hillside that led to its door sheep-mown, its small windows squinting out to the endless stretches of Chesil beach and the Channel beyond. Fat Finn’s place. As Harry led, the two women began to drop behind, cautious, a little afraid, reaching for each other and holding hands.

  The brick-built keeper’s cottage was Victorian, one floor, built around a central chimney with a small room at either flank. It was of the greatest simplicity in design but showed signs of recent attention: the roof had been patched with tiles that hadn’t weathered, one of the windows had been replaced, the solid door repainted. Harry felt foolish as he knocked. There was no answer. He tried the handle but it was locked, top and bottom, bolted, and the windows had enough dirt to offer almost no view of the interior. He circled around the back. The trees crowded around the rear of the cottage, protecting but also darkening, casting deep shadows in the morning light. A small extension had been built at some point in a different brick that jarred; it had a door with old, blistering paint that Harry once again tested, but it, too, was locked. A large red propane gas cylinder stood to one side, which Harry instinctively rapped; it rang hollow and empty. Beyond a crumbled stone wall whose purpose had long since been lost there was a small outhouse overgrown with ivy that at various points might have been privy or dog kennel or lock-up; now the door swung open on a broken hinge to reveal a stack of firewood. Despite its signs of recent repair the cottage screamed desertion. He peered through the only window in the rear extension, wiping the grime away with his hand. He found bottles lined up on the inside, impeding his view, although he could see signs of a kitchen area. A two-ring gas hob set in a wooden counter. Wall cupboards on the far side. He thought he could hear a tantalizing buzzing sound; he stood still, his ear to the window, straining to identify the noise. It came from inside. Perhaps a fridge. He walked back to the rear door, tried the lock once more, put his shoulder to it to test it. It rattled in its frame, less secure than the door at the front. The women watched from a distance, Abby seated on an old tree stump, Jemma hovering protectively at her sh
oulder. Here, in the deep shade away from the morning sun, it felt dank, a place of shadows and dark thoughts.

  He had to do it. Harry nudged the door once again, more firmly this time, then took a step back and with his sound side flew at its painted wooden panels. It retreated but wasn’t yet ready to surrender. Three good kicks with the heel of his boot around the lock produced sounds of splintering wood and tumbling screws, and with one further kick it was done. The door lurched open, still reluctant, scraping the floor in complaint as he gave a final push, and at last Harry stepped inside. What he saw, and sensed, and smelled, made him reel in horror.

  He bent over in the fresh air and leaned on his knees, panting, trying to scrub his lungs clean. Jemma began to move towards him in concern but he waved her back. ‘Just winded myself,’ he lied, coughing, spitting. ‘Stay there. Don’t come any closer.’

  She knew he was lying. Not anything as simple as a simple fib but a dark, hideous falsehood that he’d concocted to protect her. So she stayed where she was, holding Abby’s hand.

  It had taken a hell of an effort to kill Fat Finn. Overweight, often underscrubbed, didn’t take care of himself. And suddenly, during one of their reunions, it seemed as if a switch inside him had been thrown. He looked older, still more bedraggled, complained about having been beaten up, almost killed. He couldn’t control his drink or his tongue any longer, kept repeating himself, blurting out confidences in the presence of waiters, said he was writing a book about it all. The situation couldn’t go on. Fat Finn couldn’t go on.

  Getting Finn drunk almost to the point of unconsciousness a few weeks later hadn’t been difficult and a bottle placed in the front of the car kept it that way as he’d been driven home. Scrambling up the wretched track had been the most difficult part, at their age and with Finn’s weight. He’d stirred as they’d made it to the rear door but he’d been given another drenching of whisky, most of which went down his shirt, quietening him once again. He’d known nothing. When eventually his legs had given way he’d been dragged across the threshold into the tiny kitchen, recently renovated, with none of the draughts of most nineteenth-century rural hovels, and so proved brilliant for the purpose. Windows shut tight, two gas rings lit, the door locked just in case Finn came round, the empty bottle of whisky lying at his side to tell wicked tales. Gloves, no prints. And Finn’s tiny study ransacked, his laptop and papers squashed into a bag, just in case.